Best Laid Plans (8 page)

I can ask the question I didn’t
ask Ron last night. “How do you know my address?”

“It was on the W-9 you so
thoughtfully provided.”

“How did you know that isn’t
my office address?”

“Because I own the building.”

Jackson is my landlord? “Did
you buy that today, too?”

“I already owned it. People
are going to think you’re stalking me.”

No one would ever believe it’s
the other way around. “It must be part of my plot to ruin you.”

He’s silent. Finally, I’ve
left him speechless.

“I’m starting to think you
already have. At least where other women are concerned. Since you’re running
late, I’ll give you an extra half hour. But I’m picking you up at 7:30
sharp.
”

I hear his phone disconnect
before I can complain about my refrigerator. No good-bye. No “See you soon.” His
style is to keep people off balance. Like telling me I’ve ruined him for other
women. Does he imagine I believe that? How gullible does he think I am?
Gullible enough to let him get his hands on me—and in me.

But business first. He must want
his invoice for the party. Did he really expect me to give him a dinner for twenty
people and keep the rest of the money? He’s already so arrogant—imagine how
much worse he’d act if he thought he had bought the full-service package.

The caterer is the biggest
part of the bill, and then when I add the bar, DJ, church rental, décor, and
insurance, I’ve made a hefty dent in the $150,000 he gave me.

The last number to enter is
my fee. I’ve never had to do so much in so little time. Well, I didn’t
have
to
do it. Still, I enter the number into the spreadsheet and my first invoice
shows Jackson owes me money. I don’t feel comfortable asking for more, so I
revise my fee downward and print the invoice. I’ll write a check for the
balance I owe him: $1.13.

If Mr. Hunter is not
happy with the amount, he doesn’t have to use me again. But part of me likes
the thought of Mr. Hunter using me. And part of me doesn’t.

I’m sure after dinner he will
be inviting himself up. Or taking me to his place. Or taking me in the backseat
of his car. If I don’t want that, I’m going to have to be equally direct—once I
decide.

So what do I want? There’s no
debating that he knows his way around a woman’s body. And I’m certainly
attracted to him physically. Is it enough? Could I have casual sex with
Jackson? A better question is what kind of kinky stuff does he like? Is he into
bondage, or whipping, or making me get on all fours and bark like a poodle? What
would I be willing to try?

I’ve spent the last five
years on the outskirts of the San Francisco kink community, and it’s not the
scary and strange place I thought it was. Yet, I’ve never had any interest in
experimenting with it before Jackson.

I have an entire dinner’s
worth of time to decide. A lot will depend on which Jackson I dine with tonight:
the bossy dictator, the sexual predator, the thoughtful listener, the gentle
seducer, or the manipulative control freak. He has more sides than a princess
cut diamond.

I look at my watch, and
realize I need to get moving. The thought of seeing him sets off a swarm of butterflies
in my stomach. I need to calm down. I need to take a few deep breaths, find a
dress, shower, and get through the evening without making a fool of myself. I
can do this.

It’s 7:29 and I’m ready. I would have liked some mascara,
but my hands are a little unsteady. I don’t remember any man having this effect
on me. When the intercom beeps, I will tell him to wait downstairs, and that
way I don’t have to be alone in my apartment with him. My clean apartment. My
very clean apartment. And hopefully my hands will stop shaking by the time I
get to the lobby.

At 7:30, there is a knock on
the door, and I jump. When I look through the security lens, I see Jackson. He
wasn’t supposed to be inside the building—then I remember that he owns it. The
butterflies in my stomach turn into raptors.

“Who is it?” I squeak.

“You know who it is. Open the
door.”

“I mean…just a minute.” I’ve
already made a fool of myself and I haven’t even opened the door yet.

“Jillian, I know you’re
standing right there.” His tone is very…what…can someone sound patient and
demanding at the same time? “Jillian?” he asks again, not sounding so patient
this time.

“I’m thinking,” I blurt out.

“What are you thinking?”

My heart races and the back
of my neck is sweaty. “I’m thinking if I open this door, we are really going to
do this.”

“Yes, we are. We are really
going to dinner. We are really going to talk business. Unless you don’t open
the door, and I have to stand in the hall all night.” He fakes a whisper. “I
hope your neighbors don’t notice.”

His little joke lightens the
mood. I tentatively unlock the door, and slowly pull it open, staying behind it
as if it’s a shield. He stands in the hall and watches me, trying to judge my
emotional state. “May I come in?”

He’s so damn sexy in his dark-gray
suit that I can’t speak. I just nod my head…a little too quickly, like one of
those bobbing-head toys in a car that just hit a speed bump.

He moves cautiously into the
apartment, eyeing me as if I were an injured animal that might attack. “Jillian,
why don’t we leave the door open so you’ll have some fresh air. Have you eaten
today?”

I try to think. Have I? I
worked, and then met the realtor, and then cleaned the apartment, and then made
his invoice, and then showered, and then had this damn panic attack. “No, I don’t
think so.”

“Your blood sugar might be
low right now. Do you have anything in your refrigerator? Can I look for you?”

My blood sugar. That’s right.
This happened before. At my wedding. I wanted to fit into that damn dress, and
starved myself. And then embarrassed myself. But Bill was too drunk to notice. “He’s
dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

Did I say that out loud? “My
husband. I was thinking about him.”

“I’m sorry about your
husband. But you need to think about yourself right now.”

“I was. The blood sugar. Yes,
I think it’s low. But I don’t have anything to eat. My refrigerator died. Your refrigerator,
I mean. I was going to go shopping.”

The elevator chimes and Mrs.
Johnson walks by, with her groceries. I watch Jackson deftly intercept her.

“Pardon me. Jillian’s blood
sugar is dangerously low and she doesn’t have any food in the apartment. Could
you spare a piece of fruit or something? I’ll gladly reimburse you.”

Who is that man? He sounds as
sweet as an Eagle Scout helping an old woman across the street. Mrs. Johnson
falls for the act—hook, line, and sinker.

“Would a yogurt do?” She’s
practically cooing. I bet Jackson uses that sweet voice to get women to do what
he wants all the time. I just wonder why this is the first time
I’ve
heard
it.

They both turn to look at me,
and now I know how the animals in the zoo feel. Jackson smiles. “Jillian, would
you like a yogurt?”

I swallow and try to hold it
together long enough to answer. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Johnson. And Jackson…” He
tilts his head. He looks so sweet and so concerned I can’t stand it. “Please
stop talking to me like I’m holding a gun to your head.”

“Yes, Ms. Whitkins,” he mutters.

“Better take two.” Mrs.
Johnson hands him a couple of yogurts. He hands her some money but she shakes
her head.

“I insist,” Jackson coos, and
I can tell by the look in her eyes that it isn’t just a dollar bill he’s
slipping into her palm. She giggles like a schoolgirl (even though she’s old
enough to be his grandmother) and finally leaves. Jackson sets the yogurts down
on the table and heads to the kitchen for a spoon.

I step out from behind the
door and take a seat. I’m so mortified by this entire episode I pray it’s all a
bad dream, and I’ll wake up very soon.

Jackson returns, rips open a yogurt,
and sticks the spoon in with one swift motion. We don’t talk while I eat. I
start to feel my old self, except for the part of looking like a fool in front
of this man. “I’m sorry.” I keep my eyes glued to the yogurt container.

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t
forget to eat. You scared me.”

“I can’t imagine you scared
of anyone.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. “I
feel partly responsible. Like I said last night, I thought you were more experienced
and I played too hard, too fast. I can sometimes misread things. You’re
probably afraid of me, at least subconsciously. And then what you must have
read on the Internet made it worse.”

“Are you trying to tell me
this is post-coital stress disorder?”

“Pre-coital, Jillian. Definitely
pre-coital. You don’t feel like you can trust me, and when I showed up at your
door…”

Tonight was just one more
embarrassing moment we’ve shared. It’s time to reboot. “Can we call a truce?
Can we just agree that you weren’t drugging Pippa; I wasn’t scamming you; you
offered to buy me, I didn’t understand so I spent all that money on your
brother’s party; I overreacted when the real estate agent hinted you were
buying the church; you overreacted when you kidnapped me.”

He shifts toward me in his
chair. “I’ll agree if you change kidnap to abduct. I wasn’t doing it for a
ransom.”

“Duly noted. Can we also decide
to stop manipulating, threatening, overreacting, and
abducting
, and
instead try communicating as our first response.”

Jackson smiles and nods his
head.

“Then in the spirit of
communication, I’ll be honest. You said you played too hard, but I still found
it…erotic. I’d like to trust you.” He stares at me, and it’s too intimidating
to hold his gaze. I pretend to concentrate on scraping the bottom of the yogurt
container. “I’m not sure I can trust myself. I don’t trust I can finish what we
started.” I look down at those lovely hands of his, and see them clench. “Even if
I want to,” I add in a small, shy voice.

I must still be a little off-kilter
because when I look into his face, his expression tells me either he’s
confused, or surprised, or just trying to find a way to get out of here before I
go totally off the deep end. I’ll give him the opportunity for a graceful exit.
I owe him that. “I’m sorry for ruining your evening. They must have canceled the
dinner reservation by now. I’ll get your invoice and if you have any questions,
you can email me.”

He stands and I can’t help
thinking that I could be on a date with a sexy, single billionaire if I had a
working refrigerator. He holds out his hand. “No restaurant cancels a Jackson Hunter
reservation. Come.”

We’re doing this? I put my
hand in his and stand up. He helps me on with my coat, and I notice the front
door of my apartment is still open. I close it behind me while he presses the
elevator button. Suddenly it clicks.

“You didn’t leave my front
door open for the air, did you?”

“I’m used to women being
afraid of me. I always give them a clear escape route.” He motions toward the
small elevator car. “I can take the stairs if you want to ride alone.”

“I’m embarrassed enough at
what I did. I think I can hold it together for five floors.”

The doors close and the
elevator begins its slow descent. Part of me wishes he’d grab me and kiss me
senseless (like that “Fuck the paperwork” line) but he’s all business, staring
at the floor numbers above the door, and I can’t blame him. I do miss the
flirty Jackson, though. If I can lighten the mood, he may realize I’ve returned
from my trip to Looneytown.

“Why don’t restaurants cancel
your reservations? Do you write scathing Yelp reviews?”

He turns his head, and looks
puzzled. “You don’t know how power works in this town, do you?” Instead of
turning away, he just keeps staring, and there’s something in his eyes.

His words make me feel like a
child, but that look makes me feel like a sex goddess.

His car is parked in front,
and Jackson holds the door for me. Ron watches me in the rearview mirror and I
give him a quick smile before he looks away.

I reach into my coat pocket. “I
have your invoice with me.” I hand Jackson the slip of paper and the check.

He is momentarily confused,
and then realizes what it is. “Oh, that.” He slips it into his jacket pocket
without even looking at it. “I wanted to talk to you about the church. The
numbers don’t work unless I can make it generate some income. Then I remembered
your
advice. You said Bryan would make a good club manager. When I asked
if he was interested, he said yes. Jumped at the chance, actually. He would
have given me another damn hug if I had been anywhere near him.”

“You bought your brother a
church for his birthday?”

He pulls his phone out of his
pocket. “I haven’t bought it yet. That’s where you come in.”

I suspect Jackson has a soft
spot for his family that he likes to keep hidden, and I would say something if
he wasn’t making a phone call right now. I think it’s a little rude to be
calling someone while he’s with me, but he is a mogul and I’m the crazy woman
who lives on the fifth floor of one building in his real estate empire.

“The space could be a great
event venue. My brother is energetic but inexperienced. I need someone to guide
him. I thought you did an excellent job and would be the perfect person. I’m
not going to buy it unless you agree to work with Bryan.” He puts the phone up
to his ear. “Hi, Bryan. I’ve got Jillian here and told her the deal. I’ll let
her give you her answer.”

He holds the phone out but I
refuse to take it. He presses the speakerphone button, and Bryan’s voice fills
the car. “Hi, Jillian. I hope you’re going to say yes.”

“Actually, this is the first
I’ve heard of it. I’m not sure what I’m saying yes to.”

“Oh.” I can hear the disappointment
in his voice. “Maybe you should take this off speakerphone and we can talk
privately.”

Jackson’s manipulating me
again, and all the gratitude I felt toward him for putting up with my little
breakdown disappears. When he reaches to press the button, I grab the phone out
of his hand. “I know how to work a smartphone.” I turn the speaker off and put
the phone to my ear. “Don’t assume this is any more private. I suspect your
brother taps his own phone.”

“Look, I bet you’re feeling used
right now. That’s not uncommon when working for Jackson…but don’t let that make
the decision for you. I’m nothing like him. I respect you, I think we
communicate well, and this could be
really
fun. Just give it a try. The
worst that can happen is that you don’t like it and quit.”

Of course. I
can
quit.
“Well, we are going to dinner right now. Let me find out
exactly
what
the offer is.”

He decides to go for one more
sales push. “My brother knows how to fit the right people to the right job.”

“That’s not what you were saying
in Italy.”

“This isn’t Italy. This is
San Fran-friggin-cisco. Please, Jillian, say yes.” He’s pleading now, half in
jest—but only half.

“Good night, Bryan.”

“He’ll send me back to Italy.
I know he will.” He sighs in mock desperation.

“Good night, Bryan,” I
repeat, chuckling to myself.

“Hunter Enterprises will look
great on your resume,” he says in his Jackson voice.

“Bryan, I’m hanging up now.”

He tries one more guilt trip.
“I won’t sleep until one of you calls me!”

I hang up and hand the phone back
to Jackson. “I may have a grin on my face but that was manipulative, and we had
just agreed not to do that.”

“No. That was time management.”
He looks out the window. “See. We’re here.”

The here he’s speaking of is
the House of Prime Rib. It’s right out of
Mad Men
. Solid, traditional,
and lots of prime beef. Much like Jackson. I chuckle at my private joke and he
raises an eyebrow at me. “Is there something I should know about the kitchen
here, also?”

“No. They are very fastidious.
But I’m noticing you do like your old school San Francisco restaurants.”

“Can you see me in a trendy restaurant?
They’re too loud, too crowded, and too rude. I prefer someplace less hectic
when I’m discussing business.”